


so you're unattached, like me

by ggggnashville



Series: what if they were happy? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, anyway, like what if they were just together from the start, what if they were happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggggnashville/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: i thought to myself, gee, they could just be happy, they could just have been together this entire time.  this is silly.
haven't i made them suffer enough?





	

**Author's Note:**

> everything else i've ever written has been so angsty i need to be kinder to them

_Oh, Christ,_ Sherlock thinks as he is pulled out of sleep.

He glances to his right and glares at the name glowing on his phone. 

_Mycroft, it’s always Mycroft._

Sherlock can understand why his brother is worried.  It’s true he hasn’t left his new flat in over a week now.  It does classify as “worrisome” behavior, he knows.  But he knows the real reason for worry and it doesn’t get any easier. 

Sherlock glares at the phone until it finally stops its yammering and then picks it up and sends a message to his annoying git of a brother.

_I’m fine.  I’m sober._

_SH_

He doesn’t get a reply, and that really is too telling.  But perhaps it’s also telling that Mycroft didn’t ask for any proof this time. 

He supposes, as much as he is loath to admit it, that Mycroft is right.  He’s starting to hate the color of his kitchen walls and there’s only so much violin he can play before he drives himself mad.  The truth is, however, that he’d been hiding because he wanted it quiet.  It gets so loud _out there_ at times.  And he knows he’s been stuck in his own head completely for the last three days.  Sometimes that’s the only place there really is.  He’d needed blessed silence for a short vacation.  Something like that.   A way to tidy out everything in his head.  Delete some remainders, things unneeded.  And yes, of course, he can recognize just why his silence can be worrisome.  But it’s been almost a year now, Mycroft really should give him some credit.  He even went to a couple of the meetings, for God’s sake. 

He throws the covers off and runs a hand down his face.  He’s a little surprised he’s slept so much.  Eight hours isn’t what he’s used to, though in his defense he had only slept for four hours in the two days previous.  Still, he’s slipping.  He’s just turned thirty and it’s been a couple of weeks but it still shocks him.  He didn’t think he’d make it past twenty five. 

He reaches for his night stand, hand wandering blindly until he feels the pack of cigarettes under his fingertips.  Mrs. Hudson had told him that she didn’t want him smoking in the house, so he does her the favor of opening his bedroom window.  He lights one and immediately feels better.  He arches his back and raises his arms above his head to stretch. 

He supposes he can leave the flat today. 

***

 

It’s a decision between the intimacy between oneself and the cab driver, or of the strained chaos of taking the tubes on a weekday morning.  He chooses the latter, feeling anxious just thinking about a driver trying to make small talk with him. 

He stops for a coffee inside café under the flat and then heads out.  The tubes are loud but it’s anonymous.  He watches a couple make eyes at each other and feels vaguely ill.  There’s a mother rocking her baby next to them and he isn’t sure which sight is worse.  He sips at his overly sugared coffee and shuts his eyes, trying to melt into the metal of the train cars. 

He arrives at Bart’s Hospital more because he has an in here and hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s meant to be doing with himself.  He knows he can get body parts and more equipment in this lab because the young woman who works here likes him.  Like most things he had sort of stumbled upon the lab and Sherlock really has always just sort of done whatever he liked.  He was a graduate chemist after all and so he’d set it up.  And now he had Molly to help him do whatever he pleased.

Sweet, sweet Molly, whom Sherlock had no idea what to do with.   She clearly fancied him from the get go and he wasn’t sure how to get around it.  He’d tried just about everything.  He’d been overly sweet to see if that would throw her, which it didn’t, it only excited her.  He’d tried being completely rude but then she’d just sort of gone with it, though he couldn’t understand why.  He’d even tried upping how overtly gay he was, gesturing in more feminine ways, raising the tone of his voice, giggling.  She’d clearly not gotten it, which was truly incredible given that he’d thought he was fairly obvious to begin with.  Now, he has settled finally for pretending to not understand her advances.  It seemed the least cruel way to go about it and it wasn’t as if he was _lying_ , necessarily. 

He has one more cigarette before going into Bart’s.  He takes the elevator and then heads towards the lab, looking around to see if Molly is in.  He doesn’t avoid her, he never avoids anything besides his brother, but it’s good to know what type of day it’s going to be. 

Molly is standing over a body, taking notes in her dainty, flowery scroll.  Sherlock likes her, despite how he acts.  She’s genuine, and smart, and too kind for her own good.  Sherlock knows he doesn’t deserve her affections, however misplaced they may be. 

He saunters in, binning his now empty coffee cup. 

“Anything interesting today?” 

Molly jumps a bit, and then beams at him. 

“Oh, hello there.  How are you today?  Haven’t seen you in a bit.”  Sherlock makes a non-committal-humming noise.  “And on the left, you said you were wondering about bruising, so I saved him for you.”  Sherlock doesn’t bother with a thank you, he just nods and turns towards the body.  He decides he’ll get another coffee before he starts in. 

He makes his way to the cafeteria, and on the way he hears a familiar voice behind him. 

“Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock turns and sees Stamford…Stamford something.  Matthew?  Michael?  The latter seems correct.  Sherlock gives him a thin lipped smile, nodding. 

“How are you, haven’t seen you in a spell!” Stamford says, overly friendly.  Sherlock suppresses an eye roll.  He likes Stamford just fine, but he’s really not in the mood.  He’d had to drag himself out of the flat today. 

“Fine, very…good.  And you?”

“Good, good! And how is the new flat?  Seems like an excellent location for you, you’re always out and about in London.”

“Yes, it’s, good.  A bit expensive though.”

“Well, you could always ask your brother to loan you some money?” Stamford suggests, trying to be helpful. 

“Don’t think so,” Sherlock replies, and he can feel his mouth forming into a grimace.

“Well, what about getting a flat mate?  Cut the rent in half there, yeah?”

Sherlock almost laughs, but he turns it into a scoff instead.  Merely the idea of having a flat mate is entirely laughable.  Imagine another person living in the same vicinity of Sherlock is insane.  Sherlock keeps body parts in the crisper and doesn’t sleep for days and yells and shoots at the walls because he gets _bored_.  Stamford has no idea. 

“Who would want me for a flat mate?” Sherlock says.  Stamford is kind enough to smile at Sherlock and shake his head. 

“Probably some other brilliantly mad person.”

Sherlock knows that Stamford is being kind, but he still inwardly grimaces at the idea of someone else in his space, judging, making awful human sounds, annoying him and taking up air.  Downright disgusting.  It takes a superhuman amount of strength for Sherlock to not stick his tongue out and retch in the elevator. 

“Well, if you come across any of those who need somewhere to live in London, let me know.  By the way, you might want to let your son know he isn’t allowed to take the car.  He definitely put the dent there.”

“How in the world did you--” Stamford begins, but the elevator is already opening and Sherlock walks out without looking back. 

***

 

A few hours later Stamford comes back, and he isn’t alone.  Sherlock notices the second voice immediately.  It’s soft and warm and he forces himself not to look up.  Instead he changes the focus on the slide he’s been studying. 

Without looking up he clears his throat.

“Stamford could I borrow your phone?”

“Sorry, I don’t have mine on me.”

“Here, use mine,” says the warm voice from across the room.  Finally, Sherlock looks up. 

The man is limping toward him, and Sherlock sees about a hundred things at once. 

The man is small and about three years older than Sherlock, but he looks older than he is because of how sad he is.  Sherlock sees the tan line as the man stretches his hand out to give Sherlock his phone.  War veteran, doctor war veteran.  He wonders what his mother would say.  _Sherlock, a doctor?  How lovely._  The man has dirty blond hair and dark blue eyes.  Alcoholism runs in the family and Sherlock feels a sympathy he doesn’t normally toward the man.  He knows all too well about addictions.  He’s sees that the limp is psychosomatic and he sees that the man knows that too, and yet can do nothing to prevent it.  The man has dark blue eyes and Sherlock immediately think he’s very handsome and then backtracks on himself, _No, he’s fine, he’s just fine.  Not beautiful at all, he’s just fine._

“Oh, thank you,” Sherlock says. 

He sends the text and then goes off.  Sherlock realizes half way through his dramatic spiel that he’s trying desperately to impress the small man in front of him.  He moves to walk out the door so that he doesn’t get too caught up in any of it.  He feels that the tiny man who is a fucking sun will swallow him whole if he looks at him much longer and so he tries to leave as quickly as possible.

“Hold on a sec, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t know a thing about you, I don’t even know your name.”  Sherlock feels a smirk fall over his face.  _Fantastic_. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”

Sherlock winks, and can’t believe he’s done it.  Then he leaves the room and then he nearly trips over himself heading toward the elevator.  Once the elevator doors close he lets out a shaky breath.  Sherlock is annoying himself.  The stumbling, the shaky breath, the sigh he lets out.  It’s all so…plebian.  Pathetic.  He hasn’t felt this way in ages.  Somewhere his brain brings Victor Trevor out from its deepest depths.  That was university, that was a decade ago of nervous kissing and wandering hands, a time so long ago he almost forgot, or chose to forget.  And he’s met this man three minutes ago. 

_God, get it together.  You’ve got to be kidding me._

He takes the taxi home, unable to go through a huge crowd again.  He can’t believe Stamford now.  Another brilliantly mad person.  Could it be true?  Another brilliantly mad person?  Well, Sherlock is brilliant but he’s also absolutely terrible.  Wretched even.  But this man.  Maybe he could be good for Sherlock.  Sherlock does what he always does and overthinks everything.  He smokes more out of his bedroom window and pesters Lestrade for some sort of case, anything, even a two, but apparently all of London’s criminals have gone on vacation.  He finally falls asleep around four a.m. with his shoes still on in the living room. 

***

 

John comes round the next day.  He calls Sherlock “Mister Holmes” and it’s too strange.  Lestrade finally pulls through and gives Sherlock a new murder.  It’s the third in a set and the best part is that Sherlock can see that John is intrigued.  And John follows, which makes him ten times more interesting than Sherlock had originally thought. 

They end up staking out at Angelo’s.  John orders and then licks his lips.

 “Any…girlfriends,” John asks, moving his pasta around with his fork. 

Sherlock suppresses a laugh.  He very briefly imagines a world in which he ever dated a woman, was ever interested in them.  Truthfully he doesn’t understand them, brilliant as they are.  He imagines a world where he didn’t grow up getting made fun of for being so damn different and…well, queer, for lack of a better word.  It’s ridiculous. 

“Girlfriends, not…really my area,” Sherlock replies.  That should clear it up. 

“Any…boyfriends? Which is fine by the way.  It’s all fine.”

John is trying to be cautious, worried.  He doesn’t want to offend Sherlock.  Sherlock tries not to have his hopes dashed immediately.  It was stupid to have had these types of hopes in the first place. 

“No.  I know it’s fine.”

“So you’re unattached, like me.  Good,” John says.  He is smiling slightly, and the light is hitting his hair in such a way that makes it golden.  It’s been a long time since someone has flirted with Sherlock but he knows what it sounds like.  He knows what it’s supposed to sound like and look like and he’s about ninety percent sure that John is flirting with him.  Sherlock narrows his eyes trying to focus and then lets the realization set in.  This could be amazing.  He knows he shouldn’t enter into this.  He knows he’s an addict and can’t be trusted to not completely and utterly fuck this up.  But God, does he want. 

He thinks about declining.  He remembers the counselor in his AA meetings saying they should all wait to get into relationships until they’d been sober for at least a year.  And that had made sense.  In fact, it hadn’t even been a concern.  Sherlock hadn’t wanted anyone in so long it didn’t seem like something that would affect him.  But he’s been sober ten months and there’s a beautiful doctor staring at him, licking his lips.  

“Yes, I am.  Unattached, that is,” Sherlock replies. 

John cocks an eyebrow after swallowing some of his wine. 

“Good, that’s good.  That’s…” John trails off, but he’s beaming, giving Sherlock a look that Sherlock isn’t sure he understands but doesn’t mind that he doesn’t. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and realizes he’s smiling into his pasta.  This is preposterous, he’s acting like a teenager.   He finds he doesn’t even mind. 

The look on John’s face is magnificent.  He’s trying to hold in a huge smile and so Sherlock stops trying.  He lets out a small laugh and then beams at John.  He can’t help it.  Sherlock can feel himself blushing.  It’s all horrible and fantastic at once.  He thinks he should possibly be embarrassed but can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed at all. 

 

***

 

 

 

The case had ended better than he could have hoped.  He was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t been able to prove he was correct but John had made things much more fascinating.  They have too much adrenaline to simply go back to the flat so Sherlock takes John to his favorite Chinese restaurant. 

Sherlock orders lo mein and doesn’t touch it.  He feels John’s foot hit his ankle.  It’s glorious. 

Sherlock realizes John isn’t eating much of his food either, he seems to have…other things on his mind. 

Sherlock can’t believe this has worked at all.  He had tried to impress John and apparently it had worked.  And to top it all off, John seems to enjoy getting off the same way Sherlock enjoys getting off: the thrill, the dead bodies, not being boring, .  And Sherlock tries very hard and fails to ignore the fact that John is an army man.  He thinks back to age fifteen, realizing he loved men and then also realizing he thought a man in a uniform was absolutely stunning. 

“That was very stupid, I hope you know.  You just willingly were going to take that pill.  I know I said it earlier.  But…you really must be mad.”

Sherlock laughs.  John isn’t wrong.  The wonderful thing is that he thinks John might understand.

“Yes.  It wasn’t the cleverest thing I’ve ever done.  But you followed me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“You killed a man for me.  Some people would consider that a bit romantic.” 

“I suppose it is.”

John shakes his head and laughs himself, and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.  He looks gorgeous.  His eyes are shining and his smile is lovely.  Sherlock shoves down the pang in his chest.  He doesn’t want to already be feeling this, it’s absurd.  He does his best flirtatious voice, from what he can recall.  He hasn’t had a genuine relationship in years but he has faked flirting to get what he wants.  He’s done that plenty. 

“You know I thought you were just going to be helping me pay the rent.  Turns out you are helpful in more ways than one.” 

John’s eyes take on a look that is darker than before.  He looks…hungry.   It’s fascinating. 

“I do like to be helpful.” John shrugs and then takes a bite of his rice.  He looks happy, which is really quite a turn of events because Sherlock can tell that John has been sad for a very long time.  Sherlock doesn’t want to be proud of himself but he is.  John likes him.  All of his efforts weren’t wasted.  And now John is flirting with him.  _Flirting_. 

They get take out boxes and walk home.  It’s cold but Sherlock doesn’t notice at all.  Sherlock unlocks the door and throws his coat onto the back of a chair. 

They sit around the kitchen table.  Sherlock realizes he still has feet in the refrigerator and there’s four different types of mold on the counter, for an experiment.  Normal people would probably be thrown off by that.  Would probably think that was a bit disgusting.  John doesn’t know these things exist yet but John also willingly went to investigate the murder of a woman, wanted to go see a corpse and so Sherlock feels he probably won’t be too thrown off by the feet.  John has agreed to live with Sherlock and he hasn’t yet moved his things in, and Sherlock knows he won’t help at all and John will roll his eyes and pretend he’s annoyed but won’t be, not really.  Sherlock can read all of this so vividly, and loves it. 

“It’s two am,” John points out.  He has his hand resting on his fist and he looks very handsome. 

“Yes, and?”

“And I feel like it’s probably time for bed.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow and he blinks rapidly.  Is John suggesting what he thinks he’s suggesting?  Sherlock can’t be sure, and if he’s wrong…Christ. 

“Oh, all right,” Sherlock says, unable to think of something better to say. 

John stands up from his chair.  He moves two steps and then is standing over Sherlock, mouth soft and eyes bright.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John says.  He lifts his hand and brushes Sherlock’s hair out of his face, then quickly moves his hand away, nervous.

Sherlock realizes he must be staring, mouth agape. 

“Good night, John,” Sherlock replies. 

He watches John walk up the stairs, completely limp free, and knows he has done something fantastic and wonderful today.  He wants to get up and follow John, walk up the stairs and stop him, push him against the wall and kiss him gently.  He hasn’t kissed anyone in nearly ten years but the idea intrigues him and somehow doesn’t scare him to death like he always thought it would.  And it seems that John would want that, but what if he’s wrong?  He almost never is, but this could be a terrible error.  John is beautiful and brave and absolutely perfect.  Sherlock doesn’t do any of the things he wants to but instead stands up and walks to his bedroom.

 

***

For a week Sherlock is nervous mess.  He knows John likes him.  He likes John.  He more than likes John.  He wants to know everything about John, and Sherlock has no idea how to make a move.  He has done this before but there’s something about John that makes this far more difficult than it should be.  Sherlock thinks that if he doesn’t do things properly he’ll regret it every day for the rest of his life. 

They solve two more cases within the week but they’re small and simple, yet after the second case John insists on getting drinks.

.  Sherlock doesn’t really drink.  He’d preferred different addictions during his earlier years, but he supposes a…beer will be fine. 

They go to a pub three blocks from the flat.  It’s dark, and there’s too many people.  Sherlock bellies up to the bar and scoots his chair closer to John.  A drunk blond woman behind him knocks into his right arm and spills wine onto his jacket.  To Sherlock’s complete surprise he doesn’t scream at her and instead rolls his eyes as John laughs at the spectacle.  They’ve known each other for a week and somehow they understand each other so well.  It became obvious the first night but it’s truly incredible.  Sherlock tries not to make himself so obvious but it is a bit difficult.  Especially when John wears his nice jacket, and the blue sweater that brings out his eyes. 

“That was brilliant you know,” John says, sipping his beer. “The gardener, really?”

“The fingernails,” Sherlock replies, swallowing hard.  He doesn’t really care for beer but he’ll do it to amuse John, and Sherlock doing anything to amuse anyone besides himself isn’t something he’s used to. 

“I’m so lucky,” John says, raising his eyebrows. 

“Hmm?”

“I get to hear about all the gory details.”

Sherlock laughs. 

“You know, people don’t usually like that bit.”

John’s smile is warm and inviting, or is that the beer, Sherlock can’t be sure.  He’s been trying to keep pace with John.  He hasn’t been to a pub in forever.  He’s fairly certain he’s really only been in pubs and clubs for cases, shamming at being drunk beyond reason to get information.  He’s fairly certain he hasn’t been in a pub since university.  They didn’t ever appeal to him.  But now, watching the dirty blond soldier next to him, he seems like he can get behind it. 

“Well, where’s the fun if there hasn’t been a murder?” John finishes off his beer and then gestures to the bartender.  “Shots,” he says. 

“What, no,” Sherlock says.  He doesn’t drink, he’ll fall over he’s sure of it. 

“What, yes,” John says, a solid argument. 

“Doctor, are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Maybe a little,” John replies, a smirk falling over his lips.  There’s something in his face that Sherlock can’t quite place but it looks…hungry. 

Sherlock feels his face burn and blinks rapidly, stutters, then tries again. 

“Fascinating,” Sherlock says, then downs the rest of his beer.

“What is?”

“You.”

The bartender brings them shots, Sherlock is fairly certain it’s whiskey of some sort.  John passes his over to him and Sherlock stares at it for a moment, grimacing. 

“What, too posh to do a shot?” John teases.  Sherlock snorts at the comment.  Of course he’s not too posh for shots.  He’s been high in alleys before, sitting on the ground near skips.  Of course, he doesn’t tell John that. 

“Of course not.  It’s just been a…while.”

“I think you’ll find that, in this case, you don’t forget how to throw a shot back.”

Sherlock sighs and then holds his breath and downs the whiskey.  It burns and when he finishes he shakes his head and sticks his tongue out.  John laughs.

“That was really elegant, yeah.”

“Well let’s see you do it!” Sherlock says, and is smiling the entire time. 

Of course John throws the shot back and swallows with no problem whatsoever.  Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might get stuck in the back of his head. 

“You were saying?”

Sherlock waves him off. 

“Get us another round.”

So John does.  Sherlock is starting to feel the alcohol.  He feels warm and smooth and watching John is lovely.  Sherlock can feel his eyelids getting heavy and he feels the desire to reach out and run his hands through John’s hair.  It looks soft. 

The blond woman comes back and bumps into Sherlock again.  He’s got less self-control. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he says.  She turns around and eyes him. 

“Oh, sorry,” she says softly, and then gets a look that Sherlock’s seen before, from Molly.  “Let me buy you a drink.”

It’s always shocking, it’s never not shocking.  Sherlock isn’t sure what he has to do.  Put more product in his hair despite the fact that there’s already so much it’s nearly gotten to using one third of the bottle every day?  Make more wild hand gestures?  Wear…ugly clothing? 

“No, no, it’s really fine,” Sherlock protests. 

“But I want to,” she says and smiles wide.  John is actually starting to look annoyed and that just isn’t correct.

“You really don’t want to waste your money as I’m rather gay.  Sorry to disappoint.” 

She gives him a confused and drunken look and Sherlock beams up at her.  She turns around and he turns back to John, and starts laughing uncontrollably.  John is cackling into the back of his hand.  It’s all so very silly. 

“Christ, Sherlock.  That’s not the first time is it,” John says, shaking his head. 

“Sadly, no.”  Sherlock nods and sips his drink.  “I thought I was fairly obvious, but alas.”

“I seem to have the opposite problem,” John says, licking his lips.  

“What do you mean?”

“Blokes don’t always catch on when I’m hitting on them,” John replies, and keeps eye contact with Sherlock the entire time.  Sherlock scoffs and feels himself blush again.  He tries to think of something intelligent to say back but he can’t.  He feels ridiculous, a grown man unable to get his mind together enough to flirt back.  He feels like he’s a teenager again.  His brain has gone all fuzzy with _John John John._

“Um,” Sherlock replies brilliantly. 

John laughs at him softly. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here.  I think we’ve done enough damage.” 

John closes the tab and then takes Sherlock by the hand, and drags him out of the pub.  His hand is warm and solid and delightful.  Sherlock doesn’t even mind that he’s being dragged around. 

Once outside in the brisk February air, Sherlock pulls his cigarette pack out of his pocket and lights one. 

“For a genius, that’s pretty stupid.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a drag.

“Wow Doctor Watson, I hadn’t ever known that smoking cigarettes was bad for me, thank you for clearing that up.” 

John takes Sherlock’s hand again and squeezes.  Sherlock feels his face go completely hot. 

“This all right?” John asks.  His face is open and vulnerable and Sherlock can see all of it.  The years of being in the closet in his formative years.  The lover he took in university that he doesn’t talk about with anyone.  It’s all written there, and so is his vulnerability.  He looks beautiful. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says.  He means it so deeply.  His heart is pounding and he’s fairly certain he has a dopey look on his face. 

“Well, good.”

Sherlock tries to remember the last time he held someone’s hand and comes up completely short.  He isn’t used to this at all.  It doesn’t make sense that someone is interested in him.  The maniacal drug addict that has been pathetically sad for as long as he can remember; not a huge catch.  Not to mention that he didn't know how to be a person, a normal person.  Normal is boring.  And terrible.  And God, John is handsome. 

They make it back to the flat and up the stairs and John closes the door behind them as he brushes his jacket off.  Sherlock has sobered up a bit from the walk, but not much. John is rummaging around in the kitchen and he comes back with a bottle of fifty year old scotch that Sherlock had stolen from Mycroft and two glasses. 

“You know, to celebrate the case.”

Sherlock nods and extends his hand for the glass.  John pours him a decent amount and Sherlock thinks he should probably not have quite this much but hell.  There’s a beautiful boy in front of him after all.  John’s eyes are bright and his hair is a little tousled from the wind but it looks good.  He’s watching Sherlock from his chosen chair, and he puts his feet up on Sherlock’s arm rest.  Sherlock had sort of thought he was done with things like these.  He is still fairly young but it hadn’t really seemed possible.  And certainly not from someone so bright, like John.  So bright and radiant, brave, mad.  Mad like Sherlock.  Mad like adrenaline and bullets and blood and doing only what comes naturally.  Doing exactly what you like.  Sherlock realizes he’s utterly fucked, watching John back.  John is the most fascinating person Sherlock’s ever met with hands that heal and kill with the same finger tips. 

“What is it?” John asks, a smile hidden behind his glass. 

_Oh nothing, you’re just incredible and I’d like to kiss you._

Sherlock takes a drink before responding.   He’s certain he is going to say something stupid. 

“This isn’t something I normally do.”  Sherlock gestures between them. 

“What, have a drink with friends?”

“In case it wasn’t already clear, I don’t have a lot of those friend things.”

“Well, you are a complete smart arse but lucky for us I find it endearing.  For the record, I was sort of hoping this wasn’t just friendly anyway.” 

John’s being vulnerable again.  It might just be that he’s a little drunk but Sherlock can tell he means it. 

“Me too,” Sherlock finds himself saying.  It comes out quiet and almost inaudible, but John hasn’t missed it.  The look on John’s face changes completely and his mouth goes soft.  John places his drink on the floor beside him and then places his hand on Sherlock’s knee.  He licks his lips and clears his throat. 

“All right?” 

“Please.”

And then they meet in the middle.  John groans into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock gasps.  He runs his hands through John’s hair and truly, utterly, can’t believe his luck. 

“Finally,” he whispers, lips against John’s jawline.

“Have you been waiting all week for me to kiss you?” John asks, voice rough, hand trailing up Sherlock’s thigh.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you’re fantastic and I didn’t want you to run away.”

“Did I really give you any sign that I was going to run away if you kissed me?”

“So I was nervous, shut up, less talking.”

It isn’t until full minutes later that Sherlock realizes he hasn’t kissed anyone like this in many years.  He knows this and leans in further.  He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and doesn’t even have the room in his mind that it should probably be a little embarrassing.  John has one hand gently on his neck and the other at his hip and his mouth is doing incredible things to Sherlock’s clavicle. 

“God, do you know how gorgeous you are?” John mutters.  Sherlock pulls him back up to kiss him.  He wonders how far he would be comfortable going in this moment and realizes that despite the fact that he’s not done this in ages he’s ready to do just about anything.  The man in front of him killed a man to save his life the first day they met.  Sherlock feels ready to do the same, and that, that’s utterly terrifying. 

“John,” Sherlock says, and John pulls away to look at him.

“Yes?  All right?  God, I’m sorry, I know we’re both a bit drunk.  Should I stop?”

“Stopping, stopping?  God no why would you stop?”

“I thought maybe it was a lot all at once, sorry,” John says, but Sherlock kisses him again. 

“No, no, don’t be stupid, it’s lovely.  Brilliant really.”

John kisses Sherlock’s cheek, then the side of his mouth, then lets out a breathy sigh. 

“You’re so much, I can’t believe my luck.  You know, when I saw you at Bart’s I already knew I was in trouble.”  John laughs at himself, then puts Sherlock’s face in both of his hands and kisses him once more. “I mean I’m utterly fucked.  I don’t want to scare you off.” 

_Scared, I’m not scared, you’re for kissing and warmth and I would love you in my bed.  Don’t you know how brilliant you are?_

“I’m completely mental I know.  I’ll be a mess, I mean I won’t know what I’m doing.  I’ll be a disaster, probably.  I’m too much most likely and I’ll ask too much of you.”  Sherlock is drunk but he’s trying to be kind.  He should probably warn John at some point, before he gets too attached to the tiny soldier who tastes fantastic. 

“Sherlock I obviously don’t care.  I love how mad you are.”

Sherlock only smiles in response and kisses John.  He figures they can sort it out later.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm posting this because sherlock said "i love you" in the new trailer it came out of his own mouth and i've been making myself crazy and this is completely unedited i'm just so crazed i'm sorry i'm sorry!!!


End file.
